The Heir Of Westfall [The Alurian Chronicles Book 1]

by Christopher W. Wilcox, Sr.

  It took another five days to reach the valley that led to Eastfell Keep. King William surveyed the approach in disbelief. He had last been in Eastfell only eighteen months before. It had been early autumn when the state funeral for the previous Duke of Eastfell had brought the king here. The approaches had still been lush with ripening hay, orchards with ripened fruits bordered the neatly fenced roadways. Prosperous farms were everywhere and the people waved at their king and queen as they passed by. The keep, smaller than Westfell, but much taller with its single tower rising above it like a finger pointing to the sky, stood on a high hill overlooking the approach. Grazing cattle and sheep dotted the landscape, separated from the fields of hay by the split rail fences. It had been picturesque and peaceful.

  Now it looked like a scene from the Netherworld. The farms, fields, and livestock were gone, as were the orchards and all the fencing. The land was uniformly devoid of life, the soil itself a sickly grey as if it were dying. The corrals Rory had described at the base of the keep now stood empty; the king had no illusions what that meant for those who had been penned in them like cattle. The fruit trees had all been chopped down and sharpened into spikes that jutted from the ground like spears to stave off the horses of the nomad warriors. Behind those outthrust spikes milled over five thousand orcs, each wearing some form of armor and carrying swords and spears. Above them on the curtain walls were the goblins, waving great two-handed swords around as they exhorted the orcs to defend the keep. Above the walls stood the tower, its sides a reddish-black with both old and fresh blood. Some of the dark sorcerers evidently remained in Eastfell, sacrificing the last of the people from the pens or perhaps those unfortunates who had been serving as slaves within the keep itself, satisfying whatever their depraved whims desired.

  The elven battle mages, whose anger over the death of so many of their friends during the attack on the Veil fueled their spells, began blasting the spikes. Many orcs were badly injured as shards and splinters of jagged wood flew through the air and impaled those too close. The remaining orcs were showered with the slivers of wood as well as the blood of their injured. The mages then turned their attention to the high stone walls, and huge explosions hurled stones high into the air to come crashing down on the wounded orcs and goblins alike.

  Suddenly they could see the demon as it came from beneath the keep. Its skin was a deep red mottled with black, studded with rows of black spikes across its shoulders and arms. The two great horns of black curled from its head reminded many of the Kendrahl warriors of the big horned rams that roamed in the mountains. Great tusks thrust upward from its bottom jaw, much like an ogre. Its eyes were pools of yellow flames that capered and danced within their sockets. It stood thirty or more feet in the air, with massive arms that hung almost to its knees ending in hands with black talons easily longer than a man was tall. Its legs were short and its wide feet also bore claws, as well as a wicked hooked spike by their heels. The demon also had a tail that lashed from side to side like a whip, and there were smaller claws imbedded along the length of it capable of shredding the flesh from a man's body in great bloody patches.

  The demon picked up one of the shattered stones and hurled it at the surrounding army. Men fled from its path yet it still managed to crush a few of them. The demon bellowed a roaring laugh as it threw more stones, first to one side and then the other to make the advancing army sway. The demon reached out a clawed hand and seemed to snag the very air itself as it tore an opening. It leaped into this rent and vanished, only to reappear right in the middle of the consolidated army.

  Twelve horses and riders were crushed when the demon appeared atop them. Its tail lashed out and tore the heads off two passing nomads. Still others were ripped from their horses by its huge hands and tossed into the air, where the demon snapped them up with his mouth, eating them alive.

  Hundreds of archers loosed flight after flight of arrows at the great creature but most either bounced off the spikes on its body or stuck ineffectually in its skin. A few brave men fired right at the flaming pools that served as its eyes but the arrows were devoured without any harm to the demon. The brave nomads raced at the demon, their shrill undulating war cry sounding from their throats. Their swords slashed at the beast's legs as they passed, but all to little effect. Most of those who charged the demon were killed by either its taloned feet or its grasping hands.

  As the army concentrated its attention on the nightmare suddenly in its midst, the orcs and goblins swarmed from Eastfell Keep and began attacking. The fight was much more even and scores of orcs and more than a few goblins were killed even as hundreds of men lay still on the ground, broken and dying. The nomad warriors of the desert and the elven rangers of the Great Forest had the best success against these fell creatures, though the King's Own and the Wolves of Westfell destroyed their share as well.

  * * * *

  Bethany stood in her cell inside the tower, watching in horror as the demon slaughtered those standing against it. She shuddered as she recalled her own encounter with the demon, after seeing the King of the Forest struck down and the Veil tore apart. Seized by two of the loathsome goblins, she had been dragged through the rent in the very air and brought here to Eastfell, appearing in the courtyard near the entrance to the tower. There she had been confronted by the Earl of Eastfell and the dark sorcerers.

  Rikard, Duke of Eastfell, was no longer the plump and slovenly teenager he had been last spring. He was skeletal in appearance, and his clothes hung on his emaciated frame. His hair was lank and dirty, and his eyes were vacant. Drool slipped unnoticed from his slack-jawed mouth as he shambled over to her. He reached out one grimy hand and grabbed the neckline of her dress, ripping away her bodice and exposing her breasts, which he then grabbed and twisted cruelly.

  "Marrying that upstart in Westfell was a huge mistake. You were meant to be mine.” His voice was filled with his insanity. Twisting her breast harder and crushing her nipple, he said, “The whelp you carry has power and the double sacrifice of you both on the altar will bring us the final victory over all who stand against us. Take her to the tower cell. Let her contemplate the horrors still to come as she sees her baby torn from her womb to be followed by her own still-beating heart."

  One of the dark sorcerers came over and examined the mithrail pendant that dangled between her swollen breasts, purpling with bruises from Rikard's harsh treatment. He passed his hand over the small wolf, muttering some incantation, then reached out and grabbed the pendant. Bethany held her breath, waiting for him to burst into flames, but he merely ripped the chain from around her neck and threw the pendant to the ground, where he smashed it with his boot heel. “See that and despair. The powers of the elves are weak compared to ours. Nothing can withstand the Forces of the Dark."

  The door to her cell faced the altar. Each time they performed a sacrifice, the sorcerers would first weave a spell over her to make her unable to move so she would be forced to watch every horrifying moment. The sacrifices were usually young women and these were the last of them held in the tower. The ritual fed off their terror, so they were not drugged or bespelled in any fashion; they were dragged into the chamber, screaming and fighting every inch of the way, by two goblins. Once they reached the altar, the young woman was forced on top of it by the simple expediency of one goblin grabbing her legs while the other held her arms. They would pick the struggling victim up and then hold her atop the altar while special ropes were tied around her ankles and wrists to secure her in place. The girl's clothes were then ripped from her body by the goblins, baring her flesh to their lustful gaze.

  The sorcerer would then stand beside the altar in blood-splattered ceremonial robes, brandishing a dagger made of some black metal. He would begin some long incantation in a language Bethany had never heard before. As he would speak, he would carve symbols in the girl's flesh with the tip of the dagger, trickles of blood running down her flanks even as she screamed and begged for mercy. No inch of her flesh was spared; from the top
s of her feet to her forehead, the arcane symbols were etched into her flesh. Reaching a crescendo in the incantation, the sorcerer would use the dagger to cut open the sacrifice's body just below the ribs. He would plunge his hand into the agonized victim's body, grab the still-beating heart, and rip it from within. Holding it high in the air before the dying woman's eyes, he would speak the final words of the incantation while he laid the heart onto a brazier of burning coals. The smell of charring meat would war with the copper scent of blood. The ritual now completed, the sorcerer would step back from the altar and signal the goblins to come forward. After the sorcerer would leave, the two goblins would then eat the remains of the victim before Bethany's terrified eyes.

  This had happened every day for the past ten, and she knew her turn would come soon. Rikard had visited her cell each day after the goblins had consumed the body of the sacrifice, playing his cruel games with her. Her clothing had been taken from her and he would gloat over her pregnancy, delighting in telling her how the sorcerer would cut the baby from her body and remove its heart before taking hers. He would abuse her, beating her breasts and buttocks with a lash. She had been afraid he would rape her but she soon realized Rikard was no longer capable of functioning as a man; this sadism was his sole avenue for release. She refused to give him any satisfaction he might derive from her tears; she would not cry out as he beat her, nor give him any indication she feared her upcoming death upon that altar.

  The arrival of the consolidated armies had given her hope. She had cheered each blast from the mages as they had shattered the wooden spikes and then the stone walls; each detonation had shaken the tower itself. When they appeared, the sorcerers sacrificed more victims, one after the other, their mutilated corpses tossed aside like scraps as the next one was forced down upon the bloody altar. Once the last five remaining women had been sacrificed, they used the power they had called to release the demon.

  What had filled her with hope was turning to despair as she watched the demon killing so many of the armies. She knew of nothing that could withstand that great beast.

  Chapter 41

  Rory watched in amazement as the mighty dragon Blue Death approached the shattered Veil. Airborne, she was an astounding creature. Her wings glittered like huge jewels as light refracted off the scales that covered her flesh. She carried a huge net beneath her; the load within it oscillating from side to side as her wings moved through the air.

  She brought the net overhead and then gently lowered it into the former Heart of the Veil. Dwarves, one eye still on the dragon, rushed forward to free the load inside from the net, even as Blue Death began to fly lazy circles in the sky.

  The load contained an immense stone sphere, perhaps twice the size of the one that had rested in the Heart before. The dwarves reverently moved the sphere into the cradle they had constructed at the exact spot where the ley lines all met.

  "All that must be done now is key the sphere to the ley lines. Unfortunately, this will take more mages than we have in the Veil at present. Once the battle mages return, we should be able to restore the glamour and the shields around the Veil and the Heart,” Arianna said.

  Barwin came over to Rory with a package in his hands. “This be also in the cargo net, Prince Rorrick."

  It was the mithrail suit of armor. Finally. Rory shed his clothes without any hesitation and donned the shining garments. The coverings for his feet were a part of the leggings that reached his waist in a single piece. It was awkward to put on and tended to pinch sensitive parts at unexpected moments, but he finally managed to get it on correctly. He slipped the mail shirt over his head and Barwin showed him how the two pieces fastened together at his waist, connecting them. The coif had been extended to cover his face except for the eyes and flowed down over his neck to where it attached to the shirt. Over the coif was worn a shiny helm made of mithrail, with additional shielding that curved around Rory's face. Mithrail gloves also went on to cover his hands and connected to the sleeves of the shirt. Rory was now completely enclosed within a shiny suit of mithrail.

  "Has anyone considered exactly how I am supposed to ride upon Blue Death's back? And where's the lance? This suit does me no good without the lance."

  Barwin said, “'Tis a fine time ta think of that now, laddie. The Guild has made ye a fine mithrail saddle which e'en now rests on Blue Death's back and the lance is lashed ta it. I'll not bore ye with the details, but the dwarves who made the saddle and placed it upon the dragon will long live in song and legend within the Guild. ‘Tis time for ye to go, Prince Rorrick, and destroy the demon."

  Rory stopped to hug Arianna. She helped him strap his swords and dagger in place before he headed out to meet the dragon. “Better to have them and not need them...” she said.

  "...Than need them and not have them.” Rory gave her a final hug.

  * * * *

  Blue Death landed next to the Tower of the Pact as Rory emerged from the Great Forest. The grass underneath her withered at her touch.

  'Are you ready, rider?'

  "Yes, I am.” Rory swiftly climbed up into the saddle. The saddle itself was made of stone and was held in place by straps made of mithrail. The lance, thirty feet long and tipped with the dragon claw fragment, was heavy and awkward to hold, but the dwarves had cleverly balanced it by placing a flaring wrist shield at a point about five feet along the shaft. If he grasped it behind the shield, he found it easier to maintain his grip and maneuver.

  Even as he adjusted to the seat and the lance, Blue Death sprang into the air, her vast wings raising them high into the sky. They flew east, toward the Keep of Eastfell and his destiny.

  * * * *

  Over a thousand men from the combined armies had been slaughtered by the demon without receiving a single injury itself. King William was afraid nothing would ever stop the fell creature from destroying the entire army. He and General Gustav had run out of ideas; nothing they had tried had worked. They had tried fire but the demon just laughed as the flames tickled along his side and head. An immense spear was tried but it shattered against the demon's side. It had picked up the remaining length and used it to swat the men around him, crushing chests and smashing skulls with abandon. Magical spells from the battle mages had no effect, either.

  The demon suddenly stopped and looked to the west, roaring challenge and defiance at the very air. Slowly, King William began to make out a shining light approaching. He signaled his men to fall back away from the demon. Many risked their lives to rescue the wounded, some from near the towering fell creature's feet. Others tried to drag away the dead, as well, to spare them the trip down the gullet of the demon. Soon, the area for a thousand yards was empty except for the dead horses none could move. No one would risk their lives to move a dead horse for the flesh might distract the demon long enough to allow other men to escape.

  The demon ignored the men at its feet as it stared into the western sky. The shining spot slowly grew, resolving at last into a figure riding the back of an immense blue dragon. The legends were true. Somehow, somewhere, Rory had found a dragon and convinced it to help them.

  The demon snatched up the splintered remains of the immense spear and hurled it at the dragon, but the spear was too slow and the flying creature circled away from its path with ease. The spear flew another mile or two before crashing to the ground, imbedding its length deeply in the soft earth. The demon strode over to one of the huge rocks it had thrown at the army earlier and lofted it at the dragon but again, the stone was easily evaded. Unfortunately, the stone continued on its path, aimed directly at Eastfell Keep, where it smashed into the tower about a third of the way up from the ground.

  The impact shook the tower and made the goblins dragging Bethany to the altar release their grip. She scrambled for the stairs, ducking past falling stones as she ran down the winding staircase while the goblins roared their anger and chased after her. One goblin was struck by a massive stone from above and was knocked off balance, falling past her to its doom at th
e bottom of the tower. A hole had been punched in the side of the tower by the impact of the thrown stone, and debris filled the stairs. She fought her way over the stones, not caring about the flesh torn from her hands and feet as she worked her way past the obstruction. She had to edge her way around the worst part, her feet swinging precariously over the edge of the stair and the long drop to the bottom. If she could get around it, she should be able to escape the goblin.

  The goblin lunged for her as she made the turn around the top of the pile, one claw scraping painfully along her swollen stomach, but it failed to secure a grip on her. Bethany grabbed a jagged rock the size of her fist and smashed the goblin in the face, one jagged edge striking its eye. Instinctively clutching its wounded face, the goblin lost its grip on the rocks. It fell off the pile and down the shaft to land atop the broken remains of the first goblin. Bethany had to scramble down the pile as it began to shift and fall over the edge, tumbling down upon the goblins and burying them under a cairn of rocks. With one hand pressed against her bleeding side, she slowly made her way down the stairs and searched for an opening she could use to escape.

  * * * *

  King William had ordered his forces to advance on the keep to destroy what remained of the orcs and goblins and to prevent the dark sorcerers from escaping. The sight of the naked pregnant woman who fled from a door in the base of the tower spurred him on. He and General Gustav, along with half a dozen of the King's Own and the Wolves of Westfell, aimed their warhorses toward the running woman.

  Bethany heard the charging horses even before she saw them. She recognized King William first and then the dear grizzled face of General Gustav and knew she was safe. She slowed her flight to a more cautious walk, still clutching the burning, bleeding wound in her side. She didn't care that she was naked before the world. Then she caught sight of the shining rider in the sky and her heart caught in her throat: Rory!